


Homecoming

by Blackpenny



Category: Blake et Mortimer | Blake and Mortimer
Genre: Family History, Non-Graphic Violence, Revenge, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:55:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28254261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackpenny/pseuds/Blackpenny
Summary: Although there are no named characters in this story, I've placed it within the Blake and Mortimer universe as it's part of my head canon for the main villain of the series, Colonel Olrik. His origins are mysterious and I have no desire to see them explained in canon, so I'm willing to entertain any number of pasts, including this one. All apologies to the ghost of EP Jacobs.Edited to add an important detail: thanks, latin_cat!
Kudos: 3





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [latin_cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/latin_cat/gifts), [darkrogue1 (Lily_Haydee_Lohdisse)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lily_Haydee_Lohdisse/gifts).



From a distance the old house is an oil painting, stone walls and delicate towers against a a lush coniferous forest; a river and a cluster of sturdy cottages in the foreground. A romantic person might imagine the benevolent lord holding a summer fete for the folk, feasts around long wooden tables, casks of wine, pretty girls in brightly embroidered skirts. In fact the village hasn’t had a connection to the manor in decades, and they like it that way. Better subsistence farming and odd jobs than dealing with the monster in the castle.

A man on horseback stops at the crest of a small hill, surveying his destination, the end of his quest. Seen in silhouette one might mistake him for a knight of old, but in full sun he’s just a rumpled traveler on a grade mare that’s seen better days. The young man had paid too much for the beast back in the closest thing this area has to a real town, and had done so without complaint. His cover is that he’s a naive academic researching traditional folk songs and stories. The chances of his being recognized aren’t great, but he can’t take the risk. It’s important that nobody official twig to his presence, as his relationship with the current regime is strained, to say the least.

He urges the mare forward down the slope. Broken down creature that she is, Hanna (as he calls her) has actually improved thanks to an expert rider and proper diet. He dismounts at the river and allows the horse to drink. It’s tempting to take a brief rest here and continue to the mission, but better to take a little time, do some reconnaissance. He leads the horse towards the densest collection of buildings, then remembers he’s not supposed to know which of these hovels is an inn. Some of the village children have started to tail him from a distance, so he waves over the boldest of the lot, a red-headed little lout, and asks him where he can buy a meal. The kid’s eyes are riveted to the coin in his hand, but he doesn’t hand it over until the kid not only leads him to the door but tethers Hanna to the fence. 

The traveler ruffles the kid’s hair and sends him off. It occurs to him that the boy is almost the image of one of his childhood tormenters; another generation of soil workers and cannon fodder has emerged. Inside a man in his mid-forties is sweeping. Our traveler recognizes him as the son of the old owner who has no doubt passed on long ago. He doesn’t seem surprised to have an early visitor having been tipped off by one of the children already. The young man is the only person to come over the hill in days. 

The innkeeper explains that the mid-day meal will not be ready for an hour yet, but he’s willing to sell a glass of beer to make the time pass easily. Contrary to the stereotype of the close-lipped rustic, Mr. J (as we will call him) is chatty and openly curious. He explains that everyone around here has at least two occupations. In addition to the inn, J has a small farm and acts as a constable when the need arises. His wife is the cook and repairs shoes, boots, and saddles if you have the need, sir. 

Of course he wants to know what business brings our traveler to this remote corner of the country. Academic research? Whatever for? Why would city people be interested in old songs and stories? The traveler explains that such things are becoming fashionable among party members, which is all the justification required. If you told these people that party members in the city were walking everywhere on their hands, they’d shrug and go back to work. As they talk, a few regulars come in and join the conversation. When they hear the young man’s business they instantly write him off as a fool, but they’re pleasant enough and even offer to tell a few local tales. The traveler pulls a notebook and a biro out of his pack and diligently takes notes, which is all the encouragement they need to talk until the food comes. 

Over thick vegetable soup, bread, and a very spare selection of cured meats, our traveler explains that he’d like to get to the next village by nightfall. It should be easy enough if he can replenish his food supply here. Perhaps he will even have time to visit the manor house, ask to see any old literary collections.

“Don’t bother, good sir,” says Mr. J. “There’s nothing of worth left in that pile, including the occupant.”

“Occupant?”

“The baron. The bear The last one who will ever live in that cursed place. When he dies it will collapse on his bones.”

“You make him sound like one of my folklore demons.”

“He was back in the day. In my grandfather’s time the family still owned much of this land, but no more. Drunkards, brawlers, gamblers, and thieves.”

“And murderers,” one of the elders mutters.

Mr. K, the blacksmith who is also the postmaster, shrugs. “My oldest boy says the old brute is going downhill every day. He can’t last much longer.”

“Your boy works at the manor?”

“I wouldn’t allow him to go past the kitchen. Every month we get a few coins to bring food and wood and make sure the old devil still lives. There hasn’t been a servant in that place for fifteen years.”

“Odd that one man would be allowed to monopolize such a large residence. Surely it would be better as a school or worker housing?”

The villagers get a good laugh at that. “You could not pay me to live in that place,” says Mr. J. “Give me a small, well-made house over a sprawling ruin any day. The whole thing should be scrapped, torn to pieces. Hell, salt the earth while you’re at it.”

The young man commends his good sense and finishes his meal. He tells them that after all they’ve said, he cannot resist the urge to visit the big house. He cannot be talked out of the notion and by the time he’s paid a little too much for his meal and road provisions they stop trying because he’s clearly too foolish to avoid trouble. Mr. K decides to take advantage of the young idiot.

“If you insist on going up there, perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking the feed bag along with you? I could give you a bit of grain for your friend out there if you like.”

“And your son would be free to help you in the shop. Very well.”

They shake on it and soon the traveler is on his way. His arrival has been the most excitement the village has had all spring. As it turns out, they, will discuss him for years to come.

As one approaches the manor house the decay becomes more and more apparent. The towers appear delicate because they have mostly collapsed, leaving only thin spires behind. Some of the walls that were solid enough twenty years ago are mere piles of stone and powdered mortar. No doubt some of those stones are shoring up homes and gates in the village. The walls that remains are covered in vines, which is perhaps why they’re still standing. The front doors are still thick and strong, banded with iron, although the ornamental pieces are gone. Is it possible the old man pawned the door knockers? Our hero leads Hanna around until he comes to what used to be an enclosed pasture. It’s overgrown but none of the weeds are dangerous. There are signs of deer activity and the stream is still running, clearer than ever. He unsaddles the mare and leaves her to graze and rest.

The formidable front doors are unlocked but stiff. With an impatient shove the he throws the door open and strides within. As decayed as the outside is, he was not prepared for the state of the entrance hall. There is no furniture at all, no carpet on the stone floor. The few paintings left are unsellable family portraits covered in dust and cobwebs. Cautious now, he explores the remains. Most of the rooms are shut up. He steps into what used to be a gathering room and is startled by a flurry of squawks and flapping. There are birds inside, nests in corners and within the crumbling walls, guano everywhere. He closes the door and continues towards the grand staircase. Once it was lit by chandeliers, now by the mid-afternoon sun. Young and fit as he is, he’d need climbing equipment to make it to the rooms upstairs. No matter, he has no desire to see his the bedrooms or, god forbid, the nursery.

There’s a question about the music room that has tickled the back of his mind for many years, but when he reaches that door he hesitates. Come on, now, he says to himself. Are you afraid of being right, or being wrong? He has to put his shoulder to the door to shove it open and immediately sees why. The dust is thick and there are signs of rodent activity, but otherwise the room is intact: white walls, gold trim, floral rug, now faded and indistinct. The dainty furniture would have been new when she came to the house, bought on credit, no doubt, or was there still some money left? Nobody has been inside in years. He walks slowly, raising little puffs of dust as he goes. On the piano there is a book of Debussy preludes, but it doesn’t mean a thing to our traveler, who couldn’t hum a Debussy work if his life depended on it. Besides the piano there is a harp taller than the man himself. How would one transport such a thing? She must have been partial to stringed instruments, because there is also a lute, a violin, and an odd thing that he later learns is called a lyre. He picks it up carefully. It’s no more than three or four pounds, easily portable. One could tuck it under one’s arm if leaving in a hurry. The violin is even lighter. The young man brushes the dust off his hands and takes a final look at the room. He doesn’t bother closing the door. Let some happy villager discover the treasure.

As he heads to the kitchen the man hears an odd sound, almost like a bellows. Snoring. Good then, the old fellow breathes yet. The kitchen is the one room that shows signs of use. There’s a basket of kindling and stack of freshly split wood, some earthenware plates and cheap cutlery in one of the sinks. Someone’s oiled the kitchen door. Of course the blacksmith’s boy would avoid that awful hallway. The snoring is coming from what used to be the butler’s pantry. The shelves and cabinets have been torn out and replaced with a bed the man doesn’t recognize. On the bed there is a dragon, or rather a very large, old man in need of a barber, a bath, and clean clothes.

It occurs to the young man that he should investigate the contents of the “feed bag” from the blacksmith: a casserole of sausage and potato, easy to heat up on the stove, cheese, bread, boiled eggs, a jar of preserves, even a little pastry. Some home cook takes pride in her work. Certainly the old man has grown fat on it. He sets the bag down on the table and looks around for useful items. The family china is nowhere to be seen, but there are a few more earthenware plates, knives and forks. Did the servants use them back in the day? He also finds the tools one needs to work with a wood stove: a heavy apron, long tongs, thick leather gloves, a small hatchet. They’ll have to do. 

Having prepared, he stands at the foot of the bed and gives the old man a good rap on the boot with the tongs. The sleeper snorts and rolls slightly, uncovering a bottle. He’s drinking the local rotgut now, the young man notes. So much for French brandy and Russian vodka. On a fragment of what used to be a sideboard lies a greasy tobacco pouch and loose rolling papers. No more imported cigarettes either, it seems. So where is the... ah, there it is, the gleam of a gold cigarette holder in a crack in the wall. Irritated, he strikes with the tongs again, this time harder.

“Wake up!”

The old fellow grunts, moans, and throws his hand over his face.

“Wake up now, or I’ll start hitting softer parts.”

Finally the moaning stops and the monster of the house opens his eyes, blue, bloodshot, and slightly filmed over with age. “Eh? Where’s the boy?”

“Right here.”

“The other boy! With my dinner!”

“Oh, don’t worry about him. I’m taking over for today.”

“Who… who are you?”

“You know who I am.”

The old man is briefly puzzled, but after a long moment of thought he starts to laugh. “So they haven’t hanged you yet. Too bad.”

“Indeed. I wasn’t expecting a fatted calf.”

“What do you want? I don’t have any money.”

“You have enough to pay a villager to take pity on you, but that’s not why I’m here. I have questions.”

“You can go to hell and ask the devil!” The old man is getting excited and the effort of sitting up quickly has made him pant. He doesn’t wear his eighty years well, the younger man notes. I’ll have to be careful with alcohol and stay fit if I want to avoid turning into a similar ruin.

“Where’s your wife?”

“Hah! Which one?”

“The second. The one you didn’t divorce.”

The old man glares. “You know full well. She ran off. Feckless bitch. Money grubbing slut.”

“Just ran off, leaving everything behind.”

“Leaving you behind, you mean. What would she want with you when she’s off whoring around the capital?”

“There is that, but I was referring to the instruments.”

“Eh? Are you mad? What do you want?”

“An answer. You would’t have put her in the well, not when we still had servants. Did you bury her in the woods? Or did you have an accomplice dispose of the body? It wouldn’t have cost much.”

The old man looks the young man straight in the eye. “I thought the bitch might have fitted me with horns, but you’re mine all right. You have your mother’s balls, though.” He has one foot on the floor now, moving slowly, reaching for something.

The visitor lobs the hatchet, neatly embedding it in his father's forehead. The dragon falls back on the bed. A butcher knife falls from his hand and clatters to the floor. Patricide. Self-defence. Justice. It doesn’t really matter now. The young man removes the gloves and apron. There’s a little blood, but most of the spatter went elsewhere. There’s no mirror in the room so he checks his trousers and sleeves for any mess. Not bad. Nothing he can't rinse out or hide. Carefully, he pulls the cigarette holder out of the wall and pockets it. Father had told several conflicting stories about how he'd acquired the object: won on a dare, payment for a debt, a gift from an infatuated married woman. The important thing is that the father considered it a trophy, and now it belongs to the son.

With far to go and his work done, the traveler has no time to waste. He cannot afford to be detained in this country. He retrieves the old man's picnic and leaves by the kitchen door. Hanna is glad to see him. She follows him to the stream and has another drink while he washes up. The sun is still bright and warm but he can't wait around to dry off. He saddles up and is soon on the road, whistling a tune whose name he doesn’t know.

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of my head canon is informed and fleshed out by other works and discussion within the fandom. Thank you, latin_cat and darkrogue1 in particular. I have a theory that Olrik has untapped musical talent inherited from his mother, a nod to EP Jacobs' own background in opera. His temper and thirst for revenge comes straight from dear old dad.


End file.
